Dean and Oprah
by SciFiNutTX
Summary: Dude, you watch Oprah? Could Dean be so bored out hunting by himself to flick on one of the most popular talk shows on television, or was there something more to it than that? Here’s my take on it. Complete.


_Dude, you watch Oprah?_ Could Dean be so bored out hunting by himself to flick on one of the most popular talk shows on television, or was there something more to it than that? Here's my take on it. (Big thanks to _**hotshow **_and Amy from the CW boards for pre-reading this and telling me to go ahead and post it.)

**Dean and Oprah**

When Dean woke he was in a musty motel room alone. His eyes darted over the peeling wallpaper as the tried to orient himself. Why weren't there the sounds of other breathing, maybe a voice or two?

_If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back._

Oh. Right. Sam was gone. But what about Dad? Dean tried to sit up, but bruised ribs complained loudly.

_Okay, Dean. If you really want to take this one alone, go ahead. But keep in touch._

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Was he that stupid? Take off from Dad so he could be alone for a spirit to whomp on him? Dean rolled over on the side that hurt less so he could sit up. He needed coffee and food, but mainly coffee. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly lunchtime. After a long, long lukewarm shower Dean felt better prepared to face people.

His movements were stiff and he was careful not to jostle his bruised side too much. It was easier to drive with one hand. He spotted a coffee shop that reminded him of Sam and pulled in. It was not his kind of place, Dean reminded himself as he walked in, but it felt comfortable and familiar. He ordered a plain coffee, well, as close as they had on the menu, and some type of pastry that most likely he would have to saw open.

Dean found a small table near the back beside a window. He settled in, sipping his coffee. Sam would love this place; Dad would hate it. Two women in business suits strolled in, talking loudly. Dean decided they were probably on their lunch break.

"I can't believe you missed Oprah yesterday!" The brunette said as they chose a table near Dean. Dean tried to eat the pastry. With disgust, he inspected it for a portion of his tooth.

"Oh, no! Was it the reunion show? Damn it! I was waiting for that!" The blonde slammed her hand down on the table. Dean glanced up, wondering what in the world could be so important about any reunion.

"The second part is this afternoon. Did you set it to record? They might recap." The brunette's voice was soothing.

"I wanted to see the part with the estranged families," the blonde insisted. "Was that yesterday?"

"No," the brunette dipped her pastry in her coffee. "It's today."

So that's what you're supposed to do with it, Dean realized. He took his rock hard pastry and dunked it in his coffee. It softened enough to eat, but left little floaty thingies in his coffee. Ew. And it did nothing to improve the taste of the cardboard pastry, either. He wrapped the soggy mess in a napkin and tossed it into the nearest trash can as a lost cause. Dean picked the nasty flotsam out of his coffee as he listened.

"Good. I heard there was going to be this family without a mother, just the father and two kids." Dean felt his interest spike. "And that man kicked one of his own kids out of the house for wanting to go to college. Can you imagine?"

"Where did you hear that?" The brunette asked, nibbling on her soggy pastry. "I didn't hear anything about that."

"I read an interview with Oprah in O." The blonde replied with a shrug. "The way she talked about this family, it really touched her. Apparently they're all supposed to cry and hug and get over it."

"I am so glad I'm taping this," the brunette sighed. "I love watching families reunited like that."

Dean picked up his cup and headed outside. He spotted a newspaper vending machine. After popping in the required seventy-five cents, he slipped out a copy of today's paper. He scanned the contents and opened it to the television section. He found the daytime tv show listings and searched for, of all frigging things, Oprah. He checked his watch; he had just enough time to grab some drive-thru on the way back to the motel.

Armed with a bag of fast food and an additional coffee, Dean struggled to open the door to his room without spilling anything. Once inside, he kicked the door shut before setting his lunch/breakfast on the lone table in the room. He looked from the television to the table. It would be difficult to watch from here. He moved his coffees to the small dresser beside the bed before retrieving his greasy food bag. On the way back, he grabbed the remote. As he settled in on the bed, he punched in the numbers for the channel with, he took a deep breath, Oprah.

His hand dug through the bag and reappeared clutching a cheap burger wrapped in white paper. As Oprah launched into her description of the show, he peeled back the paper.

"Yadda, yadda, yadda," Dean mumbled. "Just get to the part where you get everybody talking, already."

As Oprah described and introduced each family and the reasons for their estrangement, he felt the constant heaviness in his chest ease. Other families were just as fucked up as his? Some were worse? His burger gone, he wadded the white paper up and thrust it into the bag, coming back out with the fries. Eyes glued to the set, Dean munched on his fries.

His cell phone went off when the father of the Anderson family admitted the only reason he had said those terrible things to his daughter were out of fear, fear that she was marrying the wrong man. Dean ignored his phone. It went off again as the Anderson daughter, married for ten years now with two children, explained that she had lived this long without her father and did not see a reason to include him in her life anymore. Dean shook his head. _Stupid bitch_, he thought.

During the next commercial break, his phone went off yet again. Thoroughly annoyed, he snatched it off the dresser. "Yeah, what?" he snapped, not bothering to see who was calling.

"Dean? You okay?" Dad's voice filtered through heavy static. _Oh, shit!_

"Yeah, Dad. Just a little busy right now." Dean glanced around, as though a suitable excuse were lounging around in the corner of his room.

"Doing what?" Dad demanded. He noticed his father still sounded concerned.

"Research," he heard himself say. Well, it was true.

"Research? Son, I did all the research on that one already. Something go wrong?" The concern was unmistakable now.

"There were two ghosts, Dad. I got one, but I don't know where the other one is buried." Why the hell can't he just lie to the man? Had to tell him the truth, didn't you?

"Damn." He heard Dad's heavy breathing through the static. "Son, I won't be able to get there for a couple of days. Do what you can until then."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied automatically. He was not surprised to hear the call disconnect without even a goodbye. Dad was not one for pleasantries, unless he wanted something.

Oprah was back on, Dean turned up the sound. The married Anderson daughter finally admitted, through a veil of tears, that she missed her family, including her father.

"That's more like it," he muttered, lifting a fresh handful of fries to his mouth.

But it was the Peavy family that caught his attention. This was the family under discussion at the coffee shop. Old man Peavy's wife died when his kids were little and he never remarried.

"Sounds familiar."

The older child, who apparently had a fear of abandonment, still lived at home.

"Loser," he snorted around a gulp of lukewarm coffee.

The younger Peavy was disowned when he chose to go to the wrong college. Dean sat up, this was really interesting. After much verbal hammering, old man Peavy said that he did not approve of the college because it was too far away. When he told his son if he left not to bother coming back, it was a bluff to convince the younger child to stay close to home. Tears ran down the man's face as he admitted to being scared for his son's safety. The younger son started crying then, too. He wanted to be recognized as an adult, capable of making his own decisions, taking care of himself. When those two settled down, Oprah noticed that the older son, who still lived at home, had not spoken. When she asked him what he thought of all this, he said he blamed himself for the fight, his brother leaving, all of it. Both father and younger son reached over to hug the older son together. Then they apologized for putting him in the middle like that.

"No freaking way!" Dean stared hard at the television, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "You gotta be kidding me! Do people really act like this?"

The show was over and he shut off the set. He sat in stunned silence for a long time, absorbing what he just witnessed. Dean made two resolutions: 1) watch Oprah every chance he got from now on and 2) to find out if Dad was bluffing like that Peavy guy.

He headed for the library, his intent to find the bones of that second ghost before Dad arrived. It had to be related to the first ghost, the way it went ballistic when Dean took care of the first one. But he had trouble concentrating. His thoughts drifted back to his family and that last fight. It really was the last fight, because Dean never argued with Dad, that was Sam's job. Peavy said nearly the exact same thing to his son that Dad said to Sam. At the time, Dean had been caught so off-guard he said nothing. Everyday since he blamed himself for Sam leaving, for not coming up with the right words to stop the fight, for not knowing how to solve it. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't too late.

Dean researched family therapy online and was shocked at the number of dysfunctional families out there. Who knew? When the library closed at ten that night, Dean was no closer to knowing the identity of his mysterious ghost, but he had a good idea of what went unsaid during The Fight.

After a good night's sleep, the first restful sleep Dean had since Sam left, he headed back to the library. Armed with coffee and donut in hand, he resumed his ghost research. He must have been really distracted, he thought to himself, because that other ghost was clearly the dude's girlfriend. He found where she was buried in the public records and made copies of everything. Dad should be pleased, and he would be back in the room before Oprah came on.

His cell rang late that night. Dean was up watching a John Wayne western. He answered and gave his father directions to his motel. Still moving a little stiffly, Dean answered the door when his Dad pounded on it.

"Hey, Dad," he braced himself for the inevitable hug. Dad wrapped his arms around him and Dean hissed involuntarily as his abused ribs were crushed.

"Dean?" Dad pulled back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean tried to breathe normally. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Dad tossed his duffle on the floor, slamming the door behind him. "Let's see it." He motioned for Dean to lift his shirt.

"Dad," he forced strength into his voice, "really, it's nothing."

"Now." When Dean did not move to comply, Dad added, "That's an order."

Dean felt his face blank as he lifted his shirt. He knew the ugly red and purple bruise that covered half his chest and back looked worse than it was.

"Dean!" Dad whispered as he stepped forward. Dean braced himself as he felt his father's large calloused hands gently prod his ribs. When Dad touched a certain spot, Dean felt his face scrunch with pain. Damn it! It happened again before Dad was done.

"I don't think anything is broken, but you definitely have at least two cracked ribs." Dad glared at him. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone?" he demanded.

Dean shrugged. "It's nothing, Dad." He headed to the table where his research waited. "I think I know who the other ghost is, though." He handed the papers to his father.

Dad gave him a funny look as he accepted the stack of papers. He sat near a lamp to read through them. Dean returned to watching his movie, knowing Dad would not say anything else until the man was damn good and ready.

"Good work, son," Dad was staring at him. Dean squirmed, uncomfortable as the center of his father's attention. "I think you're probably right. I'll take care of this one tomorrow night."

Dean was not sure he heard that right. "Uh – you mean we will, right?"

"No. I mean I will. You've already been hurt, son," Dad pointed out as he moved for his duffle.

"But…this was my job. I should finish it." Dean stared unbelieving at his father.

"Are you arguing with me?" Dad asked, giving him a hard look.

"No, sir," Dean returned automatically. "I just want to be there to back you up, in case I'm wrong."

For some reason, Dad did not answer immediately. He rummaged in his bag for a few things before heading into the bathroom. Dean knew this trick. If he was asleep before Dad came out, then the order stood. If he was still awake, Dad might change his mind. Dean concentrated on John Wayne, determined to be awake. Besides, sitting in the car waiting for sunset sounded like the perfect time to discuss what really happened during The Fight.

Dad came out, wet hair dripping all over the place, and looked at him. Dean looked right back, clearly still awake.

"How bad does it hurt?" Dad asked softly. Dean knew his father hated it when he was hurt. It seemed to tear his Dad up, not that he was too fond of it himself.

"Not bad," he lied. "Looks worse than it is."

Dad nodded, pulling on a clean shirt to sleep in. "Okay, we'll both go."

Dean carefully forced his poker face on, unwilling to show his Dad how relieved he was. Because then, Dad would know something was up.

The next day passed pleasantly enough. Dad made noises a couple of times about Dean getting checked out by a doctor, but apparently did not think too much of it because it never became an order.

Dean checked his watch. It was nearly time for Oprah. "I'm getting hungry," he said.

"Okay, I'll go grab us something. What do you want?" Dad stood, stretching. His father had slept past noon. Dean wondered if Dad was sporting a few nasty bruises as well.

"A burger is fine," he replied with a shrug.

"I'll go see what I can find. Keep your phone on." Dad headed out the door.

Dean found the paper he bought a couple of days ago and removed the comics section. He sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard, as he turned on the Oprah channel. He laid the comics open across his lap.

Apparently this was dysfunctional family week, he realized with a grin. Oprah introduced some therapists and psychologists who specialized in family therapy. She laid out the problems of some of the families who had been on the show and asked their opinions. As one explained that what makes a family dysfunctional is not estrangement but the unwillingness to communicate, Dad walked in sporting a large white bag and two drinks.

"Dean?" he asked, handing over one of the drinks.

"Hey, Dad." Dean took the drink from his father and waited for his burger to be handed over.

"You, uh, watching Oprah?" Dad asked softly.

Dean cringed. His plan had been to pretend to read the comics, but he was so caught up in the show he forgot about his planned subterfuge. So he shrugged. "Nothing else on."

"Okay." Dad sat on the other bed to eat his burger. Dean glanced over once, saw his Dad watching the show. He guessed it was to see why Dean was so caught up in it.

Oprah demanded that her expert panel explain how a father, who apparently adored his children, could make a threat like "if you leave, don't bother coming back" when he did not mean it. How could an empty threat, a bluff, lead to years of estrangement?

Dean found himself sitting forward, absorbed by the topic, his complaining ribs be damned. When they cut to commercial, he sank back, resting against the headboard as his ribs screamed with relief. He stared at the television, running all the things he just learned through his head again.

"Interesting show you found." Dad's voice boomed from the second bed, smashing through his thoughts.

Dean's head snapped to the side. He forgot Dad was here. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

"Don't know why she's so shocked," Dad continued calmly, "I'm sure that kind of thing happens all the time."

"Maybe," Dean admitted. "But apparently most families don't permanently split up over it." He knew he was on shaky ground with this, maybe even thin ice, but he had to give it a shot.

"Hope not," Dad replied.

After the next segment, where the father was interviewed again and claimed he was too scared of something happening to his son to allow him to leave home, Dean decided to try again.

"How often do you think that's the case?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual voice.

"What?" Dad asked, turning on his side to look straight at Dean. Usually when Dad was in that type of position it was a challenge, and Dean typically backed down from Dad's challenges. But this time Dad's face was open curiosity.

Dean looked back at the television so he would not lose his nerve. He couldn't afford to now, not when he was so close. "That the father was just scared, and that's why he said it. Kinda like a last ditch effort, the ultimate bluff." He slid his eyes back to Dad.

Dad settled back into his previous position, his brow furrowed and a frown creasing his face. "I'd guess usually."

They sat in silence during a fabric softener commercial. Dean found the little bear bouncing in the towels just creepy.

"So is that family talking again?" Dad asked.

Dean glanced over, surprised by the question. Dad was staring at the television now, apparently absorbed by an advertisement for the best wood floor cleaner ever.

"Yeah. But I don't think they'll ever have a home again," Dean sighed, his eyes returning to the flickering screen. During the last segment, he had trouble concentrating, his dad's last question continually popping into his mind. Did that mean Dad wanted to talk to Sam again, but he didn't know how? Did he hope to be a family again? Why did the man have to be so damn hard to read?

When the last segment of the show was over, Dean shut it off. He stared at the blank set for a moment, composing his thoughts.

"Why?" Dad asked, once again pulling him from his private contemplation.

"Huh?" he looked over at his father. Dad's dark eyes bore into him, reminding him so much of Sam he felt that empty spot in his stomach lurch.

"Why don't you think they'll ever have a home again?" Dad asked, eyes not veering off the way they did earlier.

Dean could not handle the intensity of his father's gaze. He looked away, preferring the anonymity of the blank screen. "The kid already moved out. Why would he want to come back?" He took a deep breath. "The older brother should have been able to stop it. He's a loser."

"I don't think so," Dad replied, the same intensity in his voice.

"But he was there!" Dean shot back, glaring at his father.

"Doesn't make him a loser," Dad said, leveling a finger at Dean. "And it doesn't make it his fault. It was the father's fault. Period." Dad stood, rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. "We better get ready, this ghost isn't going to salt and burn itself."

"Yes, sir." Dean forced himself to move smoothly out of bed to his feet, not wanting to give his father any excuses for leaving him behind. But why did Dad ask about that family's home? That was pretty strange.

They found the right grave in the cemetery, now all they had to do was wait until dark. Dean drummed his fingers on his steering wheel, impatient for the sun to sink below the horizon. He knew how much the gravedigging was going to take out of him with his side in its current condition, and he was anxious to get it done.

"You know," Dad's voice broke the silence, "a family doesn't have to live together to have a home."

Dean glanced over at his father. "What?"

Dad cleared his throat. "A, ah, home is what you make of it."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, whatever." He wanted to pop in one of his tapes, but he knew how much Dad disliked his music. When Metallica poured out of his speakers, Dean spun to the right. Dad adjusted the volume to a lower level.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, his eyeballs feeling like they may pop out of his skull.

"Driver picks the music," Dad replied evenly, looking out the window.

Okay, Dad was acting really strange. Dean caught himself openly staring at his father. With effort, he managed to shut his mouth. Then he turned the key completely off. He felt Dad look over at him. "Battery," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dad nod.

"You know, son," Dad said, still staring out the window, "I was thinking after this job, maybe we should head out to California."

Dean could not help staring this time. "Why?" He heard the shake in his voice, but could not control it.

"Drive by Stanford. Check up on things." Dad cleared this throat.

"Check on Sammy?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dad's eyes dropped to his hands. "Just to be sure he's okay. Safe."

Something clicked in Dean's mind. "That's why you said it. Because you didn't think he'd be safe without us."

"He's not." Dad's voice was firm and his eyes were directed out the window again.

* * *

Dad had not called to check on him for a few days. Dean tried his father's cell, but there was no answer. Nothing terribly unusual about that, though. Dad often fell out of touch for days, sometimes a couple of weeks at a time. He concentrated on his hunt. It was a voodoo case. He was pretty sure he knew who was behind it, but how exactly do you break a voodoo spell?

After two fruitless weeks, Dean tried calling Dad again. Still no answer, just voicemail. He sighed. Time for Plan Two.

His trap captured the voodoo caster, but it was not the person he expected. It took some, ahem, convincing to learn how to break the spell. Turned out the guy was lying. That pissed him off, especially after the little girl died. He went back. That was one voodoo dude who would not be casting any more spells, on anybody.

He tried calling Dad again, it had been nearly three weeks now. This time Dad's number did not work. He got an automated message saying the number had been disconnected or was no longer in use. Dean stared at his phone in disbelief. He knew what he should do. He should go to the town he knew Dad was working in and look for him. But this seemed like the opportunity he had been waiting for. Time to see if Sammy was bluffing, too.

It was a long drive from Louisiana to Palo Alto, California. Longer when you drove it by yourself. Each time Dean had to stop for food, gas or sleep he tried Dad's cell again. The number was still bad. He made sure he arrived in Palo Alto by Friday, so Sam could not use school as an excuse. It was three weeks now Dad had been out of touch. That was not like Dad. Dean was starting to get worried. He felt he needed to get on Dad's last case as soon as possible, and very nearly bypassed the idea of stopping at Sam's. It might just be a waste of precious time. Then again, it might be the thing to get their family back together. _What would Oprah say?_ She'd say go for it, he was sure.

Dean walked up to Sam's door, intending to knock. But it was late and there were no lights on. He considered staying at a motel for the night and coming back in the morning like normal people do. That's probably what Sam would want. But their family was not normal and they were still a family – Sam needed to be reminded of that. Dean picked the lock, let himself in.

He prowled through Sam's place by filtered streetlight. How to get Sam's attention? Well, stealing a beer might do it. He headed in the direction a kitchen should be. Damn it, who the hell would put a chair right there? He rubbed his shin, grumbling to himself about college kids who thought they knew about interior design. Just keep heading to the kitchen, he told himself, working around the scattered furniture.

A noise meant Sam must be awake. With a smile, he slipped into the next room in search of his beer. When a hand grabbed his tense shoulder, Dean spun around. He blocked each of Sam's moves, which were far too predictable. Afraid they'd run into something, Dean thrust Sam into the next room, where there was a little more space to spar. When Sam started in on the heavy stuff, full kicks and the like, Dean figured it was about time to end this. He had hoped Sam would have recognized him by now.

Dean threw Sam to the ground, held his kid brother down while Sam reached up defensively. "Whoa, easy tiger." He grinned down. It had been too long, and the frightened, confused look on his brother's face was so worth it. He let the chuckle come out.

"Dean?" Sam breathed hard. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"That's 'cause you're out of practice," he informed baby brother, grinning.

Sam shifted beneath him, and the next thing Dean knew, Sam had him pinned on the floor. "Oh. Or not." He slapped his brother's shoulder. "Get off me."

Sam pulled him to his feet. "What the hell are you doing here?" The demand in Sam's voice was clear. He was not wanted here. But that could be just residual anger, mistakenly directed at the nearest target: him.

"Well, I was just looking for a beer." He grinned, grasping Sam's shoulders briefly. God, it felt good to be this close again.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam asked again. Dean knew that tone too well. If he didn't have a damn good reason, he would be facedown on the lawn in a few seconds.

"Okay, all right, we gotta talk." Boy, do we have to talk!

"Ah – the phone?" Sam said in that 'how big of a dumbass are you' voice.

"If I had called, would you have picked up?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

The light flicked on. "Sam?" One gorgeous blonde, whom Dean recognized immediately from his and Dad's excursions to Stanford, stood in the doorway clad in pink striped woman's boxers and what was left of a Smurfs t-shirt. Oh god, did he love the Smurfs.

* * *

"So what are you gonna do? Just live some normal, apple pie life?" Dean could not believe the crap spewing from Sam's mouth. He should have just gone on to look for Dad. This was going to take forever. "Is that it?"

"No, not normal. Safe." Sam insisted.

"And that's why you ran away," he realized. Damn it. How can you be safe without your family around? Dean looked away, unable to wrap his mind around that concept.

"I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was going to go, I should stay gone." Dean remembered that fight, a little too well. "So that's what I'm doing," Sam sounded like he was finished.

"Yeah, well Dad's in real trouble right now, if he's not dead already. I can feel it." That was true. The feeling of foreboding that started in Louisiana turned into full scale panic by the time he hit the California border. This was so unlike Dad. But Sam looked unmoved. "I can't do this alone."

"Yes you can," Sam snapped back.

Damn it. What would Oprah say now? _Tell the truth._ His gaze dropped as he prepared to do just that. "Yeah. Well. I don't want to."

He heard Sam take in and let out a deep breath. Dean waited, hoping. "What was he hunting?"

He cast an evaluating gaze over Sam. Score! Another point for Oprah! He was really going to miss watching that show now that Sam was joining him. It was one thing for Dad to know, but Sammy? Oh hell no! His kid brother would tease him about that until the day he died.


End file.
